Broken Silence
by Elijah-ships-johnlock
Summary: After moving in with his boyfriend a few months ago, Sherlock has become increasingly distant from everyone, but no one suspects anything. John hasn't heard from him in several weeks, until he shows up on his doorstep bloody, bruised and badly beaten up. After learning the truth about Sherlock's boyfriend, John has to help the detective through his severe ptsd. TW: domestic abuse
1. Chapter 1

John stood in the kitchen, making a cup of tea for himself. Sherlock had moved out about four months ago and moved in with his boyfriend, Victor. John continued living in 221B Baker Street on his own. They still kept in touch, though the gaps between their phone calls and visits had grown longer over the past few weeks. John didn't think much of it.

Victor was nice. At least, that was the impression John got from him. They'd only spoken a few times, when he came by the flat with Sherlock. He was blond, slightly taller than Sherlock, and more muscular. Though it didn't take much for someone to be bigger than the scrawny consulting detective.

There was a knock on the door to the flat. Normally Mrs Hudson would get it, but John remembered she wasn't home. He set down his cup of tea, walked down the stairs and opened the front door. A pale, thin figure with wild dark curls stood in the doorway, blood trickling from his nose and bruises on his face. His eyes were puffy and red from crying.

"Oh my god..." said John. "Sherlock! What happened?" Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but appeared unable to form words. "Here, come inside..come upstairs and sit down," said John, leading Sherlock into the flat. He brought the detective upstairs and sat him down in his armchair.

"What happened, Sherlock?"

Sherlock bit his lip; his whole body trembled. John held each of Sherlock's hands in his own and looked at him with deep concern.

"Were you robbed? Did you get in a fight?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Why won't you tell me what happened, Sher?"

Sherlock looked down at the floor while John watched him.

"Where's Victor?" asked John. Sherlock winced slightly at Victor's name.

John looked at him inquisitively. He started to remember all the little things he hadn't taken any notice of before about the consulting detective and his boyfriend. The strange bruises Sherlock would sometimes have on his wrists like someone had grabbed him..the way whenever Victor and Sherlock both came to visit, Sherlock was seemed to look at Victor as if he was asking permission before he spoke..or the many times he'd suddenly cancelled plans with John without any explanation..Lestrade had said something the other day about how Sherlock had stopped taking cases about two months ago which seemed odd…

"Sherlock," said John softly. "Did Victor do this to you?"

Sherlock's body became tense and his grip on John's hands tightened slightly.

"Sherlock…its alright; you can tell me."

Sherlock nodded, tears forming in his eyes again. John looked at him sadly, brushing a piece of dark brown hair out of his eyes.

"Okay," John said softly. "I'll be right back, just gonna get you cleaned up, okay?" He stood and walked out of the room to the bathroom to get the first aid kit.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid! _he thought. _I should've known! All the signs were there, I knew something was off about that scathy Victor bloke!_

He forced himself to stop criticising his lack of attention to things and focus on taking care of the man sitting in his living room who needed him now. He grabbed the first aid kit out of the cabinet and brought it back with him to the living room, where he saw Sherlock staring at the door anxiously, as if he thought Victor would burst in at any moment.

"Do you want me to lock it?" asked John. Sherlock nodded and John latched the door. "You're safe here, Sherlock, I promise," he said, holding the detective's hand.

He gently cleaned the blood from Sherlock's face first, he frowned; his nose looked badly broken. John never understood how people could do this. How could anyone hurt the person who loved them, the person who trusted them more than anyone else? John had had a close friend in high school whose parents abused her. It made John sick to his stomach to think of what sort of horrible person does that to their own children. After John had cleaned the blood off Sherlock's face, he stood.

"I'll make you a cuppa tea, alright?" he asked comfortingly. Sherlock nodded, a faint smile forming on his lips, though it wasn't enough to hide the trauma beneath. John went into the kitchen to turn the kettle back on.

A few moments later, the pale, thin detective was standing in the doorway, watching John silently as he made a cup of tea. John didn't notice him for several minutes.

"You can come in here if you want," John said softly. Sherlock hesitantly walked into the kitchen and stood shyly beside the table.

"Here, hold this on your nose," said John, pulling out a chair for Sherlock to sit in and handing him an ice pack. Sherlock sat and pressed the ice pack to his face, wincing slightly. John set the cup of tea down on the table, and sat in the chair nearest him. "Do you wanna talk about it?" asked the doctor. Sherlock shook his head. John watched him for a moment. "We can talk about something else if you want," he said. The detective didn't respond. John looked at him sympathetically.

Sherlock set the ice pack on the table and picked up his cup, raising it to his lips; his hands trembled so violently that he spilled it onto himself.

"Oh!" said John, standing up. As he reached for the cup to set it on the table, Sherlock ducked as though he thought for a moment that John was going to hit him. John stood Sherlock up and looked at his shirt which was stained with hot tea.

"Here, come with me, I'll get something for you to change into," he said, leading Sherlock to his bedroom. He rummaged through some of his drawers looking for something that might fit his friend. The way Sherlock had ducked was still replaying in John's mind over and over. It had been the man's first reflex, like it was a habit. John shook the thought from his mind and dug out an oversized, beige jumper for Sherlock. "Here, put this on," he said, handing Sherlock the jumper. Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt and put it in the laundry basket, revealing dark bruises all down his arms, especially concentrated around his wrists. Sherlock pulled the jumper over his head and smiled weakly at John.

"Do you need anything?" asked John. "I could get you something to eat, if you're hungry." Sherlock shook his head. John looked at his damaged friend sadly. "You're not going back there," he said, slight firmness in his voice. "You'll move back in here. We'll get you new clothes and I'll buy you another violin. You don't _ever_ have to go back there, okay?" Sherlock nodded, standing shyly near the corner of the room. His dark brown hair fell over his eyes and he looked down at the floor.

John looked at him and realised the extent of the damage done by Victor was much more than skin deep. He took a step toward his flatmate and reached out a hand, intertwining his fingers with Sherlock's. They'd get through this together.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, John was in the kitchen speaking to Lestrade on the phone.

"…I dunno, I was thinking I'd take him to see a therapist, but I don't know if that would help; he hasn't spoken a single word," said John.

"He might be mute from shock or post-traumatic stress," said Lestrade. "Or he could just be used to not speaking because maybe it was in his best interest not to speak when he was with Victor."

"Do you think we should press charges?"

"Maybe," said Lestrade. "I dunno though. I've had to work on a couple rape and domestic abuse cases and sometimes having to see that person again and go through the whole process in court just slows down their recovery. There's like this weird dominance thing where they'll be really submissive to their abuser and do anything they say. S'pose it's fear at first but it gets to be like a psychological thing where even if that person can't hurt them they'll do whatever that person says because it's what they've been taught. It's sick."

"He's so timid.." John said. "He spilled his tea yesterday and I reached for the cup to set it on the table and he flinched. I think he though I was gonna…" His voice trailed off.

Sherlock crept around the corner, clinging to the doorway. He was still wearing John's jumper and his jeans from yesterday. John noticed faint shadows under his eyes like he hadn't slept well, though it was hard to tell; his face was so badly bruised.

"I'll call you back later, Greg," John said and hung up the phone. "Morning," he said. "Do you want something to eat?" Sherlock shook his head, though his stomach growled loudly. John frowned. "Sher, you need to eat something," he said softly. "Come on, sit down." He gestured to a chair for Sherlock to sit. "Is cereal alright?" Sherlock nodded. John pulled the cereal out of the cabinet and grabbed a bowl for Sherlock when there was a knock on the door. John heard Mrs Hudson open the door at the bottom of the stairs and a few moments later Mycroft walked into the flat.

"Sherlock!" he said as he saw his little brother, the concern clear as day in his voice and on his face. John was a bit surprised, not at Mycroft's concern for his brother, but at him actually expressing it. The elder Holmes quickly regained his rigid control of his emotions though. "Lestrade just called me this morning," he said.

"I would've thought you'd have known already," snapped John. "Or did the 'british government' have more important things to worry about?"

Mycroft didn't say anything, though it was clear John's vicious words had served their intention of making the elder Holmes feel guilty.

"I'm sorry," said John after seeing how hurt Mycroft was. "I just…"

"I know," said Mycroft. He knelt down beside his little brother and gently brushed his fingertips over Sherlock's dark purple cheekbone. Sherlock flinched slightly. "Sorry," Mycroft said quickly, brushing Sherlock's hair out of his eyes before pulling his hand away. Sherlock looked down so that his hair mostly covered his face again.

"Has he said anything to you?" Mycroft asked John. "Greg told me you said he wasn't speaking."

"Hasn't said a word," said John. "Lestrade thinks it's some sort of post-traumatic stress thing."

Mycroft looked at the detective sadly. "Where are you taking him?" he asked.

"What do you mean?" asked John.

"He needs to see professionals, John, look at him."

"I'm taking care of him."

"John - "

"I'm not sending him to a home, Mycroft."

"It'll only be temporary. Just to help him get back to norm-"

"I'm not sending him anywhere for any amount of time."

"John, look at him. He needs help."

"Yeah, look at him! Do you really think that sending him to some institute with doctors and all sorts of strange people is going to do him any favours?"

"He needs to see a doctor."

"I _am_ a doctor."

"John, you know what I mean."

"I'll take care of him - "

"Listen to me, John!"

Sherlock jumped as Mycroft raised his voice, stumbling backward out of his seat and knocking over John's coffee onto the floor. He flinched as the mug shattered on the floor, like he had when he spilled the tea yesterday; his eyes looked at his older brother with terror.

Mycroft looked at Sherlock as the younger Holmes trembled with fear, tears starting to run down Sherlock's cheeks.

"I… I'm sorry, I…Sherlock…" he said, barely a whisper as if to compensate for shouting and frightening his little brother.

"I think you should go," said John quietly.

Mycroft glanced at John and nodded before looking at the floor shamefully. He turned to go, unable to look at Sherlock again before he left.

John knelt down beside Sherlock and held him in his arms soothingly. He ran his fingers through the young Holmes' hair. "Shh…it's alright, Sher…you're okay…" He rubbed Sherlock's back lovingly. "I've got you…you're alright…"


	3. Chapter 3

John had put off going shopping for several days. He still wasn't sure what to do. Sherlock was jumpy around even the slightest noise and John didn't want to stress him out by taking him to the store. But on the other hand, he didn't want to leave Sherlock alone at the flat with no one to look after him.

John opened the fridge and sighed. It was almost completely empty. He'd have to go shopping sooner or later or they'd starve, and Sherlock needed his own clothes; John's shirts were too baggy on him and his trousers were too short. Maybe Mrs Hudson could come keep an eye on Sherlock while he was gone. She'd offered before, when she found out what had happened. He walked to Sherlock's room to check on him. He was still asleep, snuggled under the blanket in another one of John's jumpers.

John sighed and closed the door softly. He grabbed his coat and his wallet and went downstairs. He knocked on their landlady's door and after a moment it opened.

"Oh, good morning John," she said warmly.

"Hi Mrs Hudson," he said. "Um, I was wondering if you wouldn't mind keeping an eye on Sherlock while I run to the store."

"Oh sure, dear, of course!"

"He's still asleep now," said John. "I should be back in about two hours. Um…you can phone me if something's wrong and I'll come home right away."

"I'm sure we'll be just fine, John, don't worry," she said. John thanked her and turned to go, then walked out onto the street and hailed a cab. He figured he'd get the groceries last, so he first went to see about buying Sherlock some clothes.

Everything looked either too big or too short. John sighed. He'd checked the tag on Sherlock's shirt to see what size he wore, but none of the shirts in the stores looked like they'd fit the same way; John suspected Sherlock had had a tailor fit them for him. He settled on a blazer and a couple button-up shirts that looked a bit too big, but he supposed they'd do. After purchasing the clothes he walked out of the store and saw a music store across the street with violins on display in the window.

_Perfect_, he thought. Maybe playing the violin would be a source of comfort for his damaged detective. He walked across the road and went into the store. To his delight he found a violin almost identical to Sherlock's old one.

After he got the groceries, he took a cab back to the flat. As he told the cabbie where to go, his phone started to ring.

"Hello?"

"John, I - there's a bit of a problem..with Sherlock," said a voice John recognised as Mrs Hudson.

"What d'you mean? Is he okay?"

"We're fine," she said. "It's just, well, someone knocked on the front door so I went downstairs to look through the spyhole and see who it was and it was Victor. I told him to leave and I locked the door, but I think Sherlock must've seen him out the window and gotten a fright...he's curled up under the desk, crying and won't let me come near him."

"I'm already on my way; I'll be there in five minutes," said John, hanging up the phone.

When he got out of the cab, Victor was gone. John quickly paid the cabbie and brought all of the bags inside and up the staircase. He knocked on the door and Mrs Hudson let him in.

"He's over there," she said worriedly as she gestured to the detective, who sat under the desk, hugging his knees to his chest and rocking back and forth.

John nodded. "Thank you for looking after him," he said as she left. He set down the groceries and slowly walked over to the desk, kneeling down beside the detective. "Hey…" he said, running a hand through his hair. Sherlock looked up at him through his watery sapphire eyes.

"He's gone, Sher, he's not going to hurt you anymore," said John. "I got you something while I was out…D'you wanna see?"

Sherlock dried his tears and nodded while John held his hand and led him out from under the desk. John went over to the bags by the door and pulled out the box with Sherlock's new violin in it. He handed the box to Sherlock who opened it and smiled.

"Do you like it?" asked John. Sherlock nodded and took it out of the box, running his fingers along the strings.

"Well go on then, play something," John said, smiling. Sherlock grinned and picked up the bow. He played Für Elise, then a few Johann Sebastian songs John had forgotten the titles to…he played every song John had ever heard him play, and John watched with delight as Sherlock played for hours until he'd played every song he knew and sat, exhausted, on the sofa next to the army doctor.

John ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair lovingly as the detective fell asleep in his arms. He stood and rested Sherlock's head on a pillow before putting his violin up on the shelf where his old one had once sat and placing a blanket on Sherlock. He kissed him on the forehead sweetly. "Goodnight," he whispered. He walked up the stairs to his bedroom and went to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Thank you so much for all your reviews and everything! I'm not sure, but I think there will probably be about two or three chapters after this one, maybe more just in case you were wondering. Thank you guys for reading my story, x**_

Victor hadn't come around the flat again since that day when John had left, and John hadn't left either. He'd told Sarah at the hospital what happened to Sherlock and that he didn't know how long it would be until he was back to work. They lived off what money Sherlock had, which was quite a lot and made John realise that the consulting detective had never really needed someone to split the rent with. John looked at Sherlock who was playing violin by the window in their sitting room. A thought briefly crossed the doctor's mind that perhaps Sherlock had just been lonely.

John watched him play for a few moments before pulling his coat on; he was going back to work today. Sherlock seemed to be getting a little better, that John thought he'd be okay to be left on his own for a couple of hours.

"I'll be back here at two," said John. "Mrs Hudson is downstairs, and I'll have my phone with me. You can phone anytime if you get scared or want me to come home, alright?"

Sherlock nodded, smiling lightly at the army doctor, before lifting his violin back up to his chin and continuing the piece he'd been composing.

John watched the detective for a moment longer before he left. He went outside and hailed a cab. Sherlock would be fine, he reassured himself. When he got to the hospital, he greeted Sarah before going to his office.

Just after John had seen his third patient that day, he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket.

_John, he's here. He's outside the flat. SH_

John read the text, knowing Sherlock meant Victor. His phone went off again seconds later.

_Please come home. SH_

John grabbed his coat stepped out of his office. He told Sarah that he needed to go and she nodded, understandingly.

_I'm on my way. Lock the doors, I'll be there in five minutes. JW_

John got in a cab and phoned Lestrade.

"Yeah?" said Lestrade.

"Sherlock just texted me," said John. "Victor's outside the flat. Could you get some of your guys to come down there?"

"Of course. I'll be there with a team in ten minutes."

"Thanks."

John hung up the phone and paid the cabbie, stepping out onto the sidewalk. The front door was open.

"Fuck," said John. He went inside and saw the door upstairs was open as well. Fortunately, his gun was downstairs and he grabbed it before heading up the steps.

The living room was empty. John heard a muffled sound coming from the detective's bedroom, which after a moment, he identified as screaming. Sherlock screaming. As he got closer to the bedroom door, the screams became more audible, though it was still muffled as though Sherlock was being suffocated. Probably, John realised, Victor was holding a pillow over his face to try to silence him. John could hear a repetitive and rhythmic creak of the bed frame and felt his lip curl up in anger as he turned the knob, but to no avail; it was locked. He pounded on the door with his fist.

"VICTOR TREVOR, YOU OPEN UP THIS FUCKING DOOR RIGHT NOW OR SO HELP ME GOD I WILL BREAK IT DOWN!" he yelled. The bed stopped creaking and the screams became whimpers as John heard the sound of Victor's fly being zipped up. "OPEN THE DOOR, _NOW_, TREVOR!"

John heard a loud whimper/yelp from the detective. He planted his right foot into the ground and kicked the door with his left, just below the lock, effectively breaking it down. In the room, a bloody, bruised, and frightened Sherlock who had barely pulled his clothes back on was curled in a heap on the floor. Victor harshly grasped his wild curls in one hand, causing a small noise of pain to escape Sherlock's lips. John looked at him, noticing the dark bruises appearing on his arms and face, and his belt, which wasn't even buckled.

"Get away from him," said John, pointing the gun up at Victor. "Now."

Victor yanked Sherlock up a bit by his hair, causing another yelp from the detective as Victor pulled a knife from his pocket and held it at Sherlock's throat.

"Let us leave, and I won't kill him," said Victor.

John saw a blue light flash across the window behind Victor and knew Lestrade and his team were outside. He made brief eye contact with Sherlock before lowering his gun and letting Victor slowly walk out of the room and down the stairs with Sherlock.

John heard a gunshot and ran down the stairs and outside to check on Sherlock. There was already an ambulance there, ready to take the detective to the hospital; Lestrade had come prepared.

John looked down at Victor, lying on the ground, a puddle of blood around his head where he'd been shot by a sniper across the street. He felt no sympathy for the dead man, nor any sorrow at his death. John was, in fact, rather glad of his decease. Maybe it would alleviate some of Sherlock's post traumatic stress, though he was certain that today's events would relapse his friend's recovery to where they'd been at the start, or perhaps even worse than he had been.

As he got into the back of the ambulance with Sherlock and the medics, he glanced at Lestrade who was watching them.

"Thank you," said John.

Lestrade smiled lightly at him and the doors to the ambulance closed.


	5. Chapter 5

John, wanting the best possible care for his friend, oversaw much of the treatment Sherlock received during his time at the hospital. He'd been in the hospital for several days now, and today, John and the other doctors decided, Sherlock could go home.

Mycroft had visited Sherlock and Victor's flat to get Sherlock's things and found that there were horrors far beyond any they'd imagined inside. Pieces of Sherlock's violin were found splintered in the fireplace along with shattered cups and dishes, broken vases, a cracked mirror that looked as if someone (and they deduced that someone had been Sherlock) had been flung into it, blood-stained sheets in the laundry room left unwashed, and handcuffs ringed with blood from Sherlock struggling to escape. Mycroft had been unable to find most of Sherlock's belongings besides a few torn clothing articles. He took it upon himself to buy his little brother an entire new wardrobe and to replace any other possessions of Sherlock's that had been destroyed or damaged.

Sherlock had gotten himself dressed and ready to go while John took care of any remaining paperwork that needed to be filled out before taking Sherlock outside and hailing a cab. Sherlock didn't speak the whole ride home. He still hadn't spoken since that night John had found him on his doorstep. John was worried, but Lestrade thought it was still just the shock.

John brought Sherlock inside the flat and sat down on the sofa next to Sherlock. Sherlock rubbed his eyes tiredly.

"You can lie down if you want," said John with a friendly smile at the detective. Sherlock curled up on the sofa; his head rested in John's lap, who ran his fingers through his curly dark hair soothingly.

John still felt guilty for leaving Sherlock home by himself, even though Lestrade had told him numerous times it wasn't his fault what happened to Sherlock. There was no way John could've known Victor would come to the flat; there was nothing he could've done. Still, he felt a pang of guilt every time he looked at the dark bruises against Sherlock's pale face.

"I'm sorry," he breathed softly, twirling a lock of Sherlock's hair lovingly. Sherlock looked up at him; his eyes told John it was okay and John smiled slightly.

"I promise I won't ever let anyone hurt you like that again," said John. "Not you, not my Sherlock," he said, stroking his cheek lightly enough so as not to hurt him.

Sherlock nestled his head against John's abdomen.

"Okay?" asked John.

"Okay," replied Sherlock in a soft murmur. John smiled at Sherlock for having spoken for the first time in weeks. It was just one word, one soft-spoken word, but it was enough to assure John that everything would be just fine from now on and whatever happened, they would be okay.

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_**AN: The end! Sorry for the delay in getting this chapter to you guys! I've been suuuuper busy! Hope you guys liked it! Pleeeease leave a review! Also I'm totally game if any of you guys have requests/writing prompts for me! I'd love some! PM me if you have one! Thanks for reading!**_


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